


Intervention

by cyphernaut



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Caning, Discipline, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Spanking, kink meme fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-27
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-12-13 02:59:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/819183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyphernaut/pseuds/cyphernaut
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for the following prompt on the kink meme:</p><p>Sherlock does something ostentatiously dangerous & illegal, like firing the gun inside the flat. The police come, then call Lestrade because Sherlock is 'his department' and Mycroft finds out because he's Mycroft. Everyone is in a big discussion about it because Lestrade needs him on cases and Mycroft doesn't want him in prison. Mycroft wants to cane him and while everyone else is sceptical, they agree. Afterwards, John comforts Sherlock but doesn't think caning him was wrong.</p><p>To be clear, MYCROFT CANES SHERLOCK.  IT IS NOT SEXY, AND THERE'S AMBIGUOUS JOHN/SHERLOCK H/C AFTER.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intervention

**Author's Note:**

> This is not as warm & fuzzy as my other Sherlock fic. Be forewarned. I will write more warm fuzzy fics soon. It's not completely harsh, but it's not kind and sweet, either.

Living with Sherlock was never dull, which was why John wasn't too surprised to see Lestrade storm in as he answered comments on his latest blog post.

“What in God's name did you think you were doing?!” Lestrade rounded on Sherlock, who was sitting placidly in front of his microscope, investigating a fungus that he'd been cultivating next to the leftover takeaway in the refrigerator.

“Oh, good, you found them,” Sherlock answered before turning back to inspect a new slide.

“You handcuffed two officers to a tree in the middle of a public park! Do you know what that looks like?” 

John gave up on his blog, choosing to instead watch the scene play out before him. 

“Like your officers are idiotic enough to get themselves handcuffed to a tree, which, coincidentally, is exactly the case,” Sherlock's eyes remained trained on the microscope eyepiece. “They were annoying and stupid, and I got them out of my way.”

“They put a warrant out for your arrest.”

“Clearly you're not here to arrest me,” Sherlock said, exchanging the slide under inspection. “If this were to go on my record, it would preclude me from consulting on cases in the future. We both know you don't want that, so while I thank you for your assistance in handling the paperwork, I really must get back to my research.”

“I'm not here on official business. I came as a friend.”

“Ah, well, then, I'm glad you stopped by for this little chat. It's been lovely. We must do it again sometime, goodbye.”

“This is serious, Sherlock! I only delayed the arrest.” Greg's tone intensified. John had never seen Greg quite so insistent, and Sherlock was doing his best to provoke the officer's frustration to new heights with his practised apathy.

“I'm sure you'll find a way to take care of it, just as you always do.”

“No, Sherlock, I can't take care of it this time, at least not alone.”

Sherlock finally paused in his work to meet Lestrade's eyes. “You called in my brother.”

“Of course he called me, Sherlock.” Mycroft appeared in the doorway, as if summoned by Sherlock's understated hostility. “Ah, Lestrade, you're already here. And John, a pleasure as always. Shall we move the discussion to the sitting room?”

Greg let out an aggrieved sigh, but moved to sit in one of the armchairs. Mycroft took the other and motioned John to shift his chair over to join them.

“Hurry up, Sherlock. This discussion does concern you, after all.”

Sherlock grudgingly walked past them all and fell onto the sofa, propping his feet up onto the arm as he reclined and and folded his arms over his eyes.

“As I'm to understand it,” Mycroft started, “you stole the handcuffs off two police officers, then secured them both to a tree while you continued an investigation without them, an investigation that you were not invited to join. Is that accurate?”

Sherlock smacked his lips open in annoyance before responding. “Yes.”

“And were there any mitigating circumstances?”

“No.” Sherlock somehow managed to convey his utmost boredom with the entire proceedings in the one syllable.

“Excellent. Sherlock, go wait in your bedroom, please.”

“No, I'll stay here. This discussion does concern me, after all,” he said in a passable imitation of his brother's pinched tone.

Mycroft leaned forward. “Sherlock. Get up.”

Removing his arms from his face, Sherlock sat up to stare his brother down. They stayed frozen for several long moments until Mycroft spoke. “Now that the facts are established, we're going to discuss how to extricate you from this situation. I assure you, this is not a discussion you want to be a part of. Go to your bedroom.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood, then flounced to his room and shut the door loudly behind him. John, still reeling from the odd exchange, looked to Mycroft. “Should I...”

“My brother trusts you more than anyone. You should stay.”

Unsure as to whether he should be pleased with his inclusion, John turned to Greg, who was rifling through a sheaf of papers. “Assaulting a police officer. Theft. Wrongful imprisonment.” He glanced between Mycroft and John. “This is much more serious than lifting my badge, which he also should not be doing, I might add.”

“Yes, yes.” Mycroft took the reports and casually leafed through them. “You've let this go too far.”

“We need him. If it's between letting him nick a few badges and letting murderers go free...” He trailed off, looking toward Sherlock's closed door.

“Still, you should have called me earlier. I asked you to keep me apprised of these sorts of activities.”

“What do I do now, then?” Greg asked, sounding more annoyed than apologetic.

Mycroft handed him back the papers. “Nothing. Submit your reports. I'll handle it from my end.”

“That's it? Do nothing? You asked me here to tell me to do nothing?”

“Precisely. More specifically, don't follow up when nothing comes of the reports.” He gave both of them a tight caricature of a smile. “Paperwork is the least of our problems. It seems my errant brother has gotten quite out of hand, and none of us are willing to let the Ministry of Justice do its job.”

“We can't send him to prison,” Greg insisted.

“Agreed, but something must be done to keep this from escalating.”

“Just say it, Mycroft.” John frowned at the unnecessary dramatics that always accompanied Sherlock and Mycroft's interactions. “You always have a plan. You wouldn't have come here if you hadn't already known what you wanted.”

“Very well,” Mycroft nodded his assent. “I intend to cane him.”

“What?” John gaped. Of all the ridiculous things he'd heard coming from the mouth of either of the Holmes, this had to be one of the worst. He looked to Greg, who appeared just as shocked.

“And set yourself up to be taken in for assault as well? Even if he agreed, you could still be charged.”

“As I said before, paperwork is the least of our problems,” Mycroft answered, the matter settled in his mind.

“So what are we here for if you've already decided what you're going to do?” Greg demanded. “You need some blokes to hold him down while you have a go at him?”

“No, no, nothing like that.” Mycroft waved off the question. “He's perfectly capable of holding himself still during a punishment. You're here to see that it's completely voluntary on his part. I'll not have him use this to manipulate either of you into feeling that he's been mistreated.”

It certainly didn't sound completely voluntary to John, not if the alternative was a prison sentence. “And you don't think caning him is mistreatment?”

“Compared to prison?” Mycroft answered with raised eyebrows. “No.”

“Your whole family's barking mad,” Lestrade declared, holding his head in his hands. “All right, if he agrees, but this has nothing to do with me. I'll submit my reports, and then it's in your hands.”

Mycroft's mouth stretched out into another joyless smile. “John, could you fetch my brother from his room, please?”

* * *

Sherlock lay on his bed, tossing a small ball from one hand to another, and pointedly ignored John's entrance.

“Mycroft's asked you to come back out.”

“I'd rather not, thank you.” Sherlock's voice was starkly polite as he watched the ball fly back and forth in front of him.

“Sherlock...”

“No, John. I know what he's going to say. Prison or the cane. I'll stay here, please.”

John studied Sherlock's face. While he didn't have his friend's abilities, he knew him well. If Sherlock planned to defy his brother, he'd do it outright, storm into the lounge insisting that Mycroft had no authority over him and no right to interfere in his life. Instead, he lay on the bed glaring at the trajectory of a rubber ball. “You're going to let him cane you.”

“I'll not go to prison.”

When presented in that way, it did seem the only reasonable choice. Still, there was something unnerving about the entire arrangement. “Do you want some paracetamol? You'll have to wait for-”

“No, he'll know, and he'll add strokes.”

“So,” John turned his eyes to the floor. “He's done this to you before, then.”

“Obviously.”

* * *

They returned to the lounge together, and John watched the Holmes brothers size each other up across the room.

“I see you've made your choice,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded soundlessly.

“Let the Detective Inspector know.”

Sherlock glared into the distance, and Lestrade spoke before the situation could degenerate. “That's all right. The less I'm involved, the better. I'll leave you to sort this out on your own.”

“As you like,” Mycroft answered as Greg started for the door. He stood and brushed the creases from his trousers. “And Detective Inspector? Try to solve your own murders for the next week or so. I'm afraid my brother may be indisposed.”

“God help us,” Greg muttered as he walked out the door, glancing down beside him to frown at something out of view. John wasn't surprised when Mycroft followed Greg out to retrieve a cane from the very spot.

“How many?” Sherlock asked, eyeing the cane with a forced stoicism as Mycroft returned to them.

“Does it matter?” Mycroft removed his suit jacket and laid it across the back of an armchair. “John, I'd like you to stay if you don't mind. My brother does have a flair for the dramatic, and an impartial observer would be helpful.”

“I don't... I mean, I'm not...” John stammered, feel less impartial than conflicted about the situation. 

“Calm down, doctor. I'm not asking you to participate. Your presence is enough.” Mycroft turned back to Sherlock. “Bend over the back of the chair. Grip the edge of the seat with your hands.”

Sherlock obeyed, his resentment clearly communicated though every taut line of his body. As Mycroft placed the cane lightly across the seat of Sherlock's trousers, Sherlock's body jerked with his swift intake of breath. John looked away, but couldn't help but turn back as he heard the cane whistle through the air. It landed with a sharp crack, and John flinched as Sherlock's fingers tensed around the edge of the seat, his arms stretching tight as he fought against his body's reflex to stand. 

Only Mycroft seemed unaffected, waiting staidly as Sherlock settled himself. He brought the cane down five more times before stepping back and asking Sherlock to stand. Sherlock did so, steadying himself with a tight grip on the back of the chair before facing them.

“I'm sure none of us wishes to repeat this,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock stared back, face flushed and breathing heavily through his pain. John wanted to reach out to him, so ask him whether he was all right, but it was a ridiculous question considering the circumstances, and Sherlock's attention was fixed entirely on his brother.

“Don't look at me like that.” Mycroft raised an undaunted eyebrow at Sherlock's silent challenge. “You chose this. If it weren't for my intervention, you'd be in prison.” He propped the cane against the table and pulled his suit jacket back on, brushing imaginary wrinkles from the sleeves. “But I suppose gratitude is too much to ask for.” 

It was a strange tableau, Sherlock's insistent anger and Mycroft's wry amusement feeding on each other until John thought a single misstep would cause an explosive reaction. In the end, it was nothing so dramatic. Mycroft broke the silence with his usual condescending air. “If you're going to stand there and sulk like a petulant child, you may return to your room.”

As Sherlock stormed back to his bedroom, John wondered how long the fury would last, and how it would manifest itself after Mycroft left.

“Having second thoughts, John?” Mycroft asked. “Surely someone who's experienced the brutality of war can't be shocked by a mild caning.”

“I'm not shocked.” After watching friends die for no reason other than being in the wrong place at the wrong time, John's visceral reaction to senseless violence had been tempered. This was different, however. This was a controlled and targeted violence, and the coldness disturbed him, even as he was certain it was carried out with Sherlock's best interests at heart. Even more disturbing was his hope that it would be effective in curbing Sherlock's destructive tendencies.

“Hm, no,” Mycroft mused. “You're disappointed in yourself that you approve of my methods. You wish you felt more outrage, but you don't. You're scared for the trouble that Sherlock may get himself into, and for good reason. My brother believes himself to be above the law.”

“And you don't.”

“Everything I do, I do within a legal framework. It may not be clear to you, but I do care for Sherlock in my own way. My brother does not know when to stop. If it weren't for my intervention, he'd be dead several times over by now.”

“And by intervention, you mean assault?”

Mycroft chuckled, a dry sound completely devoid of pleasure. “What he got was no worse than what I'd have got had I been caught smoking in the schoolyard as a boy. If anything, I'm far too lenient.” He took his umbrella in hand and tapped it on the floor with finality. “But we do what we can for family, don't we?”

John said nothing.

“I'll leave this here.” Mycroft indicated the cane. “Sherlock may dispose of it however he fancies. I understand those types of destructive theatrics can be quite cathartic.”

* * *

John found Sherlock back on his bed, curled on his side and clenching the rubber ball he'd been tossing before.

“I'll take the paracetamol, now. Or something stronger, if you have it.”

“I brought you codeine,” John said, holding out the tablets. Sherlock took them and swallowed them dry. “I'll fetch you some water.”

“Don't.”

John paused. “Sorry. I didn't mean to intrude. I just-”

“No,” Sherlock told him as he started for the door. “Stay.”

Sitting on the edge of the bed, John struggled to find the right words for the situation. In the meantime, Sherlock edged toward him, grabbing at the fabric of his jeans with his free hand. John put his hand over Sherlock's, hoping it could convey what John was at a loss to verbally.

“It's a false choice.” Sherlock's flat voice broke the silence.

“What?”

“Prison or the cane. It's a false choice. My brother's ability to clear my record is completely unrelated to any punishments he devises. He hurts me because he wants to. And because he can.”

“He's scared, Sherlock.” John looked down at Sherlock's tight expression and sighed. “He's scared you're going to do something that he can't protect you from.”

“You don't know him like I do.”

“Then I'm scared. And so is Greg.”

Sherlock frowned. “Yes, I'm sure my imprisonment would be a drastic blow to his clear-up rate.”

“It's because he's your friend, Sherlock!” John rubbed his face with his hands and took a deep breath. “We don't want anything to happen to you.”

“Except this.”

“No!” He shook his head, and then caught himself, unsure whether it was a lie. “I don't know. We're desperate. Your brother's desperate. What should we do? What's going to keep you from doing these things?”

“Nothing. There's nothing you can do.” Sherlock pulled away. “It's Mycroft. He's always been this way. He can't do anything for me without lording it over my head. Lestrade didn't act this way when he intervened on my behalf.”

“And your behaviour escalated until he couldn't protect you any longer. What happens when Mycroft can't help you?”

“Fine! I deserve to be beaten.” Sherlock snapped at him. “I suppose that's what you're waiting for me to say.”

“No!” He put hand on Sherlock's shoulder, and Sherlock shrugged it off, turning his face into the pillow. “Sherlock, please.”

When Sherlock didn't respond, John lay down beside him and ran his hand up and down Sherlock's arm. “Please, Sherlock. I'm terrified to lose you. Please talk to me.”

Finally, Sherlock lifted his head from the pillow. His face was wet, and he ran the back of his hand across it quickly before speaking. “He wants to humiliate me. That's why he did it in front of you and Lestrade. He wants you and Lestrade to spy on me for him. He can't stand that I have friends. He can't stand that anyone would take my side against him.”

A sinking feeling began to settle in John's stomach. He mentally reframed the incident from Sherlock's point of view, seeing himself colluding with Mycroft and Greg in the lounge whilst Sherlock was confined to his room, watching himself stand by idly as Sherlock was punished.

“I'm on your side, Sherlock. I just don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

Apparently Sherlock didn't know either. He shook his head and murmured, “I hate him.”

“All right,” John said. “Can you please stop doing these things, though? Please?”

Sherlock ran his eyes across John's face, and whatever he saw must have satisfied him because he finally nodded. “I'll try.”

“Thank you. I...” There was so much more he wanted to explain, but somehow the words wouldn't come to him. He squeezed Sherlock's arm gently instead. “Just... Thank you.”


End file.
